Constant
by shattered petal
Summary: He has lived a long life, and she is a constant feature throughout. -Roy/Olivier


**Title**: Constant  
**Genres**: Angst/Friendship  
**Rating**: K+  
**Couple**: Roy/Olivier

* * *

He has lived a long life, and she is a constant feature throughout.

The character he possesses is formed by experiences, by people, and by her. It takes him years to realise she is a part of him, that _she_ is within him. A mentor, advisor, rival, friend. The very heart of his life. As an old man, he looks back, realises how beautiful his years were, as a baby, child, teenager, adult. It is she who makes them beautiful.

When they first met, she so young, looking so angelic, pure, an angel. Eyes bright, the brightest blue he has ever laid eyes on. She doesn't smile at him. Instead, she instantly considers him an enemy, someone racing to the top. Whatever "the top" is. And he dashes alongside her, and they run together, their tiny legs carrying a dream their foolish minds play with. He constantly lives a dream beside her, until suddenly darkness is thrust at them, fate twists the knots, and snaps.

Lonely. He is lonely when she isn't around. The city is empty, and he refuses to be with other children his age. This loneliness enhances the day she reveals she is joining the military, leaving him behind. The next time he sees her, she is exhausted, shadows hanging beneath her eyes, scars littering her face, but she is still an angel to him. It isn't just a single war she has had to battle, but many. Acceptance has not been easy for her to achieve, and she influences him, encourages him, he _admires_ her. He is the first of many to admire this woman.

So he follows. Catches up, until he is suddenly racing ahead. Never does he go far without her, though. Inevitably, she'll always be one step behind to the world. To him, though, she has already reached the top, and he is merely catching her hand, helping her regain balance, there when she requires him. His friendship is like no other, _their_ friendship is surreal, both shadows for each other. As soon as the shadow is lost, they are no longer complete. They are not complete without the other. It has always been such a way.

The world see nothing, but colleagues, rivals, possible exes in a relationship.  
The world is blind.

She is cold, reminding him about her rule: detachment. Key for survival. She doesn't want to grow too close (although that is much too late). He knows why. He knows the _truth_. She doesn't want him to become her weakness, the bullet. (... too late, she tells herself, and she shivers, remembering how young and _weak _she is.) The boy, from all those years ago, is still by her side. Fire bursts from his body, and he is a Lord, a Master of the Inferno, yet–– he _melts_. She freezes the flames, they bow at her feet, and the blaze is ridden from his dark irises when he sees her.

It is odd that every time she meets him, it is as if he hasn't seen her in a lifetime. The relief in his expression, the warmth in his smile, how _boyish_ he looks. How she reminds him of those days they did nothing but raced in the fields, played sword fights with each other, tried to sneak into her Father's office, pulled pranks on the maids. She has siblings, she knows what it's like to have siblings, and he isn't a brother. He will never be a brother to her.

What he is, is much, _much_ more.

They argue, bicker, and many frown and sigh, wondering why they bother. The two are opposites: ice and fire. Two songs that cannot create a chorus. Yet, together, they are a song of their own, art, messy, beautiful art. When he touches her, she burns. When she touches him, he freezes. And yet there is no other touch they desire more. His touch is the only one she accepts and acknowledges, his gaze is the only one she can smile at, and it is only his tears which fracture her. For he has cried, many times, before her, about the war, about death, about a woman, about his adoptive mother, about her, and about himself. About them. He wishes he is a little boy again, playing with her, a little girl, naïve, oblivious, ignorant.

Even God believed he looked for the future. Only she knows he dreams of the past, wishes to relive it. Only she knows. Only she will ever know.

No other loyalty has been passed onto another. He'll only share his secrets with her, the angel he met when he was so young. Looking at her now, a soldier, commanding officer of the most feared army in the world, he notices how her wings are torn. Ripped. He notices the scars across her smooth flesh, watches the blood drip from her fingertips. She is no longer a little girl. She is a monster, but a monster that is neither good or bad. She carves a path for the good, but fights her own battles. She doesn't fight for him, and she never has.

But he would fight armies for her heart.

One day, he is the fragile boy again, and confesses he loves her. Always, he has been more sensitive, more vulnerable to emotion. She scowls at him, and denies her feelings to be mutual. The man expects as much, she is not a woman who _loves_. It is only later when he realises she doesn't believe him. This confident, proud woman doesn't believe she can be loved. Her confidence is merely a mask, like so many things. How they wear masks together, hide their deepest, darkest secrets. So scared, so silly. So like children.

Why he thinks they'll live side-by-side for years shames him for an eternity. It is a second in which he kisses her lips, locks a sealed promise that he will not die under her command. The battle they face will be dangerous, but they have faced many battles, embraced death countless times. It shall be easy, he tells himself. She doesn't kiss him back. She is a ghost at his touch, every emotion has been drained from her, yet her eyes are alive, powerful, the sea. And the waves are crashing, thundering. She wants to tell him this isn't a game anymore. He shan't grab his sword, pretend to fight with her. She knows that this will be the last time she sees him, watches his smile slowly disappear into a frown. Watch his gentle eyes surrender in confusion.

_She may be his angel, but she was never immortal_.

Too young. They haven't reached mid-forties, haven't stopped and considered the world for its beauty. Together, they have been officers, soldiers, puppets. Only _she_ has been able to control the strings, divert him to follow her, follow the right path, but now–– now he is a puppet who stands alone, no one to hold the strings, and he falls to his knees.

Roy Mustang does not take her death lightly. There isn't any other death that will give him so much agony. He remembers the little girl, prodding him in the chest, throwing snarky comments and berating him. He remembers the teenager, occasionally playful, but usually rude but wise. He remembers the woman, battling a society of prejudice, battling a war of her own, right to her death. He remembers a friend, from the day his own parents passed on. She was instantly his everything. He remembers her eyes, from when he first saw them, to the last time. They were always fierce, untamed, that of a beast.

As an old man, nearing his death, peacefully, he thinks of her. If it weren't for the photographs, he wouldn't be able to remember her face. A frightening face to most, but behind closed doors, close to him, when she allowed him to hold her, she was soft, gentle, snow. The world shall never know about the Alchemist and Warrior. A King and Queen, destined to never be. She was his blade. The man would not be here if it weren't for her.

For the majority of his life, she is in his memories, not in person. She does not haunt him, but his heart is in pain when he imagines her. For years after her death, he waits, waits for her to appear at his doorway, to somehow ring him on the phone, send him a letter. _It's only a prank, idiot_, she would scoff, then laugh at him. He misses her twisted sense of humour, misses her sarcastic comments. But, most of all, he misses _her_. Just her. His heart hasn't beat the same since her passing. When it snows, he can barely concentrate, and when it rains, he pretends the tears are not there.

However, the fire never ceases. It burns bright, stronger than the icy winds. The fire survives, survives bullets, wars, blood. Walks through the storm, and grins. Death is a terrible, wicked demon, but it a demon which is powerless against the two. He will meet her again, but he still has a lot of catching up to do. When he finally reaches her, reaches the top, it is too bright for him to see.

She was there when his life began, and she is there when his life ended, always waiting for him to catch up, before rushing off again. Yet, this time, at the end, she waits, waits until he is closer and closer, until the blaze scorches her skin.

A long life Roy has lived, Olivier a constant.

* * *

**author's note**: Part-way through this, I was trying to hold back tears, but blame that on my fatigue and the soundtrack I'm listening to. Oops, I wrote metaphorical shite that probably doesn't make sense to anyone. Ah well- just a reminder: it's a headcanon of mine that Roy and Olivier were friends, ever since they were tiny ankle biters. Thank you for reading.


End file.
